Privilege
by madame.alexandra
Summary: More reasons why Han simply shouldn't have to go to fancy political affairs. If they could hear the things he's whispering... H/L, Post-ROTJ.


_a/n: okay, well ... it's really mild dirty talk. still._

* * *

 ** _Manners_**

* * *

Each time Leia twitched her elbow back, subtly connecting it with Han's chest, he only paused for a moment, stopped to give her a look that plainly asked why the hell she'd worn a dress with such a low back if he wasn't allowed to touch. Then, his fingers resumed a lazy and blatantly seductive dance up and down her spine – she made it easy; that deeply ingrained, impeccable royal posture meant she never slouched, never leaned against the back of her chair, and there was plenty of room for his hand.

Slouching was his trademark, even at formal functions, even when she'd pulled several strings and had a nasty head-to-head discussion with Mon Mothma that ensured Han had a place at her side – even if he didn't have an official title of his own, or an official attachment to her –

He appreciated the recognition, because he relished her throwing him in their elitist faces, but he hated, hated, _hated_ these events.

Even Leia's attention wavered, and she lifted a glass of some sort of sparkling, slightly heady cider as she feigned interest, her attention focused more and more on Han's fingertips running over her skin.

She turned her head slightly, able to speak to him in a low voice because of his dramatic slouching – he was practically sharing her seat, his head angled to the side, alternately admiring her bare back and flicking over to assess her elegant hairstyle and the shimmery, clingy-in-all-the-right-ways fall of the dress.

"The audacity of that hand," she murmured.

"Got a mind of its own," Han retorted, dragging his knuckles from the back of her neck down to the edge of the dress' fabric.

"Mind your manners."

He leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

"What manners, Princess?"

Her eyes scanned the crowed in front of them – her title and station demanded a place of honor, and her demand that he be her escort placed him at her right hand.

"You're being watched," Leia advised – and he wasn't being subtle; there were few who would miss him casually and continuously running his hand over her; she was the aristocrat here, but he sat next to her like he ruled.

Han followed her gaze, noting the bored expressions of the functions' attendees, the occasional fixed gazes and furtive glances they shot up at him, either outraged at his social rise, or intrigued by Leia's flaunting. He sat forward a little, splaying his hand across her lower back, three fingers sliding teasingly beneath the fabric of the dress, and she tilted her head, lowering it to his ear.

"This dress is criminal," he accused quietly.

She bat her lashes once, and smiled blandly.

"Is it?" she murmured, her expression conveying none of the content of the conversation.

He nodded, and leaned closer.

"It belongs on the floor."

"And here I thought you liked it."

"I can't wait to get you out of it," he promised.

"Hmm," she murmured, lifting her chin a little and looking at the crowd – Han's lack of discretion was completely out of line, but it sent a thrill rushing to her head.

"I'm going to take it off with my teeth," he threatened.

She turned her head back, catching his eye, and bit back a smirk.

"Captain Solo," she murmured fetchingly, "you really ought to pay attention."

He shook his head, pulling her chair a little closer to his.

Leia spared a glance for those around her.

"Tone down the bedroom eyes, Han," she whispered. "Everyone can tell what you're thinking."

"That I'm gonna drag you straight home and throw you into bed, and fuck you?"

Leia compressed her lips, turned her head, and caught his eye again.

"Han," she said huskily, "if you keep looking at me like that, we're not going to make it to a bed."

"There's a storage closet in the hall."

Leia lifted her head gracefully, her cheeks colouring slightly, and Han grinned, sliding his hand back up her spine slowly. He hung his arm around her shoulder, a wicked smirk etched on his lips, and she let his arm stay where it was, because he'd earned the privilege.

* * *

 _you quit it, Han. you quit._

 _-alexandra_  
 _story #330_


End file.
